


when given teeth and claws (be prepared to bleed for it)

by kingsofneon



Series: be prepared to bleed [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: (but also ace & a couple of other people; it's just a mention that he's had previous partners lol), (but technically it's sexism), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bondage, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gags, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Spanking, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Object Insertion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overstimulation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery (implied), Swearing, also background ship ace x therapy, except also marco makes heaps of bad decisions so just slam dunk on him, gives acesan one single bread crumb (soz), i just brush over shit to get there, is-it-racism-if-it's-omegaverse (it's an allegory), it has a happy ending :), it's fiction and y'all are the ones who clicked, somewhat a-spec marco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28041090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsofneon/pseuds/kingsofneon
Summary: He's a stupid fucking omega. According to everyone, the only thing he needs is an alpha. According to everyone, omegas are too weak to do what Ace is doing. According to everyone, he's just an outlier and not the norm.If he ever meets 'everyone', Ace is going to rip their throat out with his teeth and show them that omegas with canines are the norm.(If he can survive, that is).
Relationships: Fushicho Marco | Phoenix Marco/Portgas D. Ace/Sabo
Series: be prepared to bleed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2054025
Comments: 52
Kudos: 76





	1. the box

**Author's Note:**

> read the tags and dont whine if it aint your cup of tea; back button's there and easy.

The first thirty minutes of the box are probably the worst. It's his own fault, too, for thrashing and pulling and yanking at the ties that bind him, but no-one has ever been able to make him stop fighting and he's not letting metal walls and a dildo keep him captive.

Except, fucking damn it, they do.

The first thirty minutes are the worst, because the first thirty minutes offer no thought, no relief, no option for Ace to do anything but rage and rasp out howled curses from behind the gag stuffed in his mouth.

Forty-five minutes is when it starts to hurt, because he has to accept that right now he can’t fight it. His lungs are burning, exertion with a gag dangerous at the best of times, and he knows he needs to force himself to calm down but throwing himself around had meant fucking onto that stupid plug, big enough to rival any alpha dick, and his blood is pounding from that, too. So: at forty-five he has to calm down, has to think about the ache in his limbs and the too-full, too-long burning of being held in one position. Forty-five minutes is when he has to stop anger from turning into panic and hyperventilation, to drift dizzily as black swarms across his vision and he breathes shallow, desperate breaths to try and stop himself from fainting.

Sixty minutes is when he starts to lose count. He's trying to keep track of the time while cataloging his position (on his knees like he's expected to stay; cock bound half-hard, wrists tied to his ankles; and then collar and leash, tying him back; the gag, that fucking gag, and the stupid silicone shoved in him making him drip slick steadily) and it's too hard to count time when potholes make him lose concentration on figuring out what's been done to him. It's the drawback of flexing his thoughts to every finger and toe; he can't drag his attention away from the other things that he feels when he's trying to take stock.

He's a stupid fucking omega. According to everyone, the only thing he should feel is a cock. According to everyone, omegas are too sensitive to do what Ace is doing. According to everyone, he's just an outlier and not the norm.

If he ever meets 'everyone', Ace is going to rip their throat out with his teeth and show them that omegas with canines are the norm.

The car jolts again, throwing the box up, and he hates the noise that gets punched out of him as the plug jumps too. The bastards are going out of their way to hit bumps, he's sure. But what better way to keep a new omega docile than play around with what their bodies want? It's a cruel trick, but not any worse than other things Ace has had to put up with before.

Sixty-two (it feels longer, but he thinks that's just the pain playing tricks on him), and the car starts to slow. He can feel it; when they do hit potholes, the jolt isn't nearly as violent. They're not even that far away from the sale center Ace has just come from, either, at least not according to his mental map. To drive around just for an extra thirty minutes so he's squirming for the Alpha that bought him? They're stupid if they think he hasn't picked up on that, and assholes for doing it anyway.

The car stops. The roller door clangs open. It's hard to hear any speech from inside the box - steel has never been a great conductor of sound - but it's easy enough to know he's being moved when the box tilts dizzyingly and gravity shoves him down hard against the back wall.

His hands spasm as they get trapped under his body weight, and he bites down so hard on the ball gag that he can hear his jaw creak. Fuckers, fuckers the lot of them - and fuck their families too, for good measure. Fuck the rocks they were born under, the mud-crawling, shit-eating bastards- he shudders again as pain rolls through him, eyes shut. Drool creeps out the side of his mouth, and Ace growls lowly at the feeling of it sliding down his jaw and throat.

In contrast to his now pulsing hands (he has to pull his thoughts away somehow, or he thinks the pain is going to make him choke or cry, especially with how thin his self-control is at the moment, and he's barely happy at the alpha seeing him drool, let alone seeing him cry-) the actual ropes barely chafe. It's infuriating, to be honest, because it means nothing takes attention away from how carefully he's been presented. No messy chafe marks, just rope and leather, and Ace dripping slick and drool. Like a pig on a platter, an adorned trophy, arms laced from elbow to wrist behind his back to put him on display for consumption. It pulls his shoulders till he can't even think of hunching over unless he wants to yank his arms from their sockets, and it has the added effect of pushing his chest out like an invitation.

Probably because they think his pecs are fucking assets, something he's built to show off and not a side effect of fighting for his life, his freedom, his rights. Training to be strong, and yet he's still trussed up and he knows he's leaking onto the floor of the stupid box, because any sort of stimulation gets him going. He's probably going to be praised for it; for being such a good omega, and Ace has never cursed being sensitive before, but now he wishes-

Well. He can wish for a lot of things right now. It's not going to change the fact that there's a gag in his mouth and he's barely breathing, his stomach a mess of knots and the pull of falsely stimulated arousal. He's had a lot of shit thrown at him over the course of his life - but this? This is going to suck.

There's no freedom in being in alpha's plaything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally if you got this far its your own fault lmao. but if u enjoyed the inklings of plot 👌👌 review
> 
> also the level of swearing in this is probably indicative of most of ace's thoughts for first half of what i have planned so if THAT gets you then the rest just gets worse. probable tags are gonna be:  
> spanking, betrayal, emotional manipulation, is-it-racism-if-it's-omegaverse (it's an allegory), total personal bullshitting of omegaverse stuff bc I have So Many Problems with it (but damn it this shit hits too many kinks:/), somewhat a-spec marco, except also marco makes heaps of bad decisions so just slam dunk on him, it has a happy ending :), but I brush over shit to get there and I don't really care; it's fiction and y'all are the ones who clicked, also background ship ace x therapy, (but also ace & a couple of other people; it's just a mention that he's had previous partners lol), gives acesan one single bread crumb (soz), MORE! TAGS! TO! BE! ADDED! I literally dont know how to cop most of these until the chaps are written so dunk me
> 
> ANY WAY happy new year and all that shit check me out on kingsofneon.tumblr.com + review my work bc i write for positive reinforcement and attention :)


	2. the beta

“-and that’s the last news on the deal going through with Shanks. I’ve already got someone watching the follow-through in case he has any complaints about the contract, but you’ve already addressed his major complaints and Shanks is always happy to partner with us.” Marco watches as Sabo clicks the end of his pen and finally hands over the revised weekly schedule, waiting for-

Sabo leans in close, their shoulders pressed together, and points out a square of blue near the top of the chart. The contact sends a shiver through him, and Marco bites the inside of his cheek so he can pay attention to Sabo’s parting words. It’ll be clear enough in the schedule, he’s sure, because Sabo’s always kept them more organised than even an army general, but- well, Sabo always seems to know when he’s not paying attention. He’d rather not get caught out because he’s daydreaming about the breadth of Sabo’s shoulder pressed against him. “Because you'll be busy for the next few days most of your schedule is free, but we can have meetings at 10 to cover any potential emergencies. Not that I expect many." Sabo grins at him, the little one that shows the corner of his canines. "Think of it like that holiday you're always promising me we'll have."

_ We.  _ Fuck he hates how Sabo uses we. He knows the context - that Sabo gets a break when Marco gets a break, because Sabo’s basically replaced ‘secretary’ with ‘right limb’, that Sabo would spend his free time with the few friends he’d made since losing all memories of his past life….but still.  _ We  _ makes him think about them, together, on a beach or in the snow, just- 

Together. 

“I’ll do my best to take it easy,” he says, and Sabo snorts. 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The sharp words bring a smile to Marco’s face, and Sabo huffs before stepping away. Still, his scent lingers softly in Marco’s space. Dampened, because Sabo’s only a beta, but Marco’s spent two years in his company, and four months memorising the smell of him lingering in the air. Parts of Marco’s apartment smell like him, all ginger and thunder and somehow irrefutably sweet, but he’s always liked it best from the source. 

God he sounds like a creep. Marco shakes his head and folds up Sabo’s schedule, resolving to have another look when he has time later tonight. “You’d better head off. It’s already past ten, sir organizer. Won’t that interfere with the rest of your day?”

Sabo looks at him like he’s an idiot and Marco wants to laugh. “Who do you think I am?” he asks, and Marco gives a lackluster shrug that makes Sabo sniff theatrically. “I left extra time because I figured this would run long, considering you’ve had me attached at the hip for a year and can’t brush your teeth without me, and-” Sabo pauses, and Marco finally sees the tension that’s been underlying Sabo’s fast words. All of this has been hard on him, in ways that Marco can’t decipher, but- fuck he wishes he knew the reason. Wishes the reason was that Sabo- Sabo didn’t want this for him, because he wanted Marco’s attention, wanted Marco to want  _ him  _ instead of-

But a beta wouldn’t get Marco into the parties he needed to attend, to make Whitebeard Corp. stay on the rise, and a beta like Sabo... Well. Sabo would’ve had an easier life being a nursemaid, and (though Marco had kept his prying subtle), as the son of a well-bred omega and an alpha, he would’ve been perfect for it. Why chose this career unless he detested the thought? Marco knew enough about betas to know they fit into two categories; too alpha to be good with kids, or too omega to be good at work. 

“It’ll be fine,” Marco says, laying a hand on Sabo’s shoulder and squeezing gently. “None of this is going to interfere with- our work together. It’s only a week and then everything should settle back to normal.”

Sabo’s mouth moved, barely, some funny twist that makes Marco frown, but then it’s gone and Sabo’s smiling benignly. “I’d best get going, don’t want to be in the way when you start introductions.”

_ You wouldn’t be,  _ he almost says, but just nods instead and heads for the door. “Tomorrow, ten am.”

“Schedule’s got all your notes,” Sabo promises, and opens the door to the sight of two burly betas and a large box. “Looks like my timing is perfect, as always,” he says, shooting Marco a grin, and Marco, faced suddenly with the reality of what’s about to happen, almost grabs his sleeve. 

But the box is going through the door, and Sabo’s pressing himself against the wall, and Marco has to cover his nose to stop the sharp smell of slick from suffocating him. Sabo falters, a pained wince on his face. His hand goes to his head, and worry beats against Marco’s ribcage. “Sabo?” he asks, waving absently at the movers to put the box down wherever, trying to get past them.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. You’ve got- introductions to get to,” he says, and offers Marco a smile, wan and tight.  _ Stay,  _ Marco wants to say, hands already moving to hold him, to pull him back to where Marco can keep him safe,  _ it’s fine, let me help you. Let me take care of you. They can wait. _ “It was only a little spike.”

“Oh,” Marco says, and the worry beats harder, but differently. Sabo’s memories come back in bits and pieces, punctuated by pain, but he hasn’t had anything new in half a year. Hasn't had any reason to go beyond his new life to find the remnants of his past, and selfishly, Marco's glad. “Anything- anybody new?”

Sabo grins sharply. “You know how it is,” he says, and Marco gives a stuttered laugh, finally stepping back from the door and letting the movers finish their work. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and if it settles I’ll tell you!”

Marco holds up a hand as Sabo vanishes down the hall, shoulders tense, and then one of the movers steps in front of him and holds up a clipboard. “Sign here?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Marco says, quickly startling into action and signing the release forms, and then suddenly they were gone and he was alone in his apartment with a box and an omega and nobody else between him and his heart beating jackrabbit-fast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> review or hmu on anon @kingsofneon.tumblr.com kudos are cool n all but only left once and I like attention :)
> 
> also i told y'all mar was an idiot (─‿‿─)


	3. the meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up that marco is super heavy ace coded (particularly evident in this chap) but keeps saying shit abt his lack of attraction being a bad thing/and hes a shit person for not being attracted to attractive people. 
> 
> he's fucking not (hes a shit for other reasons :)) and as an ace person I can say with all authority aces are the top tier but like tw for that bs (it'll show up pretty heavy in marcos pov until he starts learning better).

Sunglasses and a baseball cap are perhaps the worst disguise he’s ever used, but they worked when he was sixteen and they’re working again now. Or, more likely, everyone at the Omega centre is too well-trained in the oddities of alphas to look twice at Marco as he makes his way to the front desk. 

He clears his throat, knowing he sounds as awkward as he feels when he says, “I have an appointment? My assistant booked it - under Marco?”

The secretary looks at him with a bright grin, like she knows he feels nervous and is trying to disarm him, but the sight of all of her white teeth just sets him more on edge. He wants Sabo with him, and Sabo’s not-quite-a-smile, the way one of his canines is just slightly crooked. 

And this was why he needed a fucking omega; because he kept thinking about a beta like a love-sick fool, like a child who hadn’t grown into his secondary. The thought feels heavy, though; guilty. It’s wrong to think of Sabo just as a beta, his feelings for Sabo as something he should hate - not when Sabo’s proved he’s stunningly clever, and his smile makes Marco feel warm. They should’ve been switched at first presentation. Sabo’s analytical calculation would’ve made him a perfect alpha.

Ignoring the disingenuous thoughts, Marco turns his wan smile back onto the secretary, just in time for her to give a chipper noise of success. “Found you! If you’ll just verify your fingerprint,” he knows the procedure - he’s already pressing his thumb to the keypad she holds out, but she doesn’t falter and says, “we can get your tour started in a moment.” 

She indicates the chairs and sofas behind him, but Marco just nods and goes to stand in the corner. He can’t feel anything, sort of like he’s drifting in a dream, but he knows swimming under that current is a buzz of nerves that are going to hit him sooner rather than later. 

The secretary’s right on how quick the tour would get started; another smiling, scentless woman, in a pencil skirt and a lab coat, soon breezes through a sliding door. Her name tag says  _ Mercy _ .

“If you’ll just come this way,” she says, smiling and indicating the door she came through. It’s easy enough to step ahead of her, especially as she keeps herself between Marco and the two other alphas waiting in the room; Marco takes note as he steps through the door. Sabo had promised they’d be professional, be discreet, but it was still good to have that confirmation. 

“My name is Dr. Trafalgar, and may I just say,” she starts almost as soon as the door shuts behind them, “what a pleasure it is to have you here, sir. I’m so pleased you decided to consider our selection for your first omega - we try and offer the highest quality of services, and you’ll find that we can be very discreet.” She side-eyes him, and in her next words Marco knows that Sabo’s already talked to her about a plan to salvage Marco’s reputation. “For as long as requested, of course.”

“Of course,” Marco replies, and then wants to hit himself for sounding like a sleaze. “Thank you,” he offers instead, and Dr. Trafalgar indicates a row of neat, minimalist lockers.

“If you’d like to leave anything-?”

In relief Marco takes off the stupid hat and sunglasses, finding both unnecessary in the nicely-lit, airconditioned building. Her lips twitch into a smile, but she’s off again before Marco can note it properly. 

“The facilities, as you can see, operate at an incredibly high standard. This is actually one of the largest omega training facilities on this coast, and we’ve developed some very humane, effective training techniques. We really just want to help bring out the best in your future omega. Showcase that they have- or rather, showcase the very best of their personalities.”

She walks so fast that Marco can barely see flashes through the windows they pass, but if he’s being honest he’s grateful. He doesn’t need the history spiel, and he doesn’t need to see training techniques. He’s got one goal, and one goal only; get an omega and get out.

“Now, based on the preferences you submitted-”

(He has a moment to think  _ I did?  _ and then remembers Sabo’s competency, and has to stop a flush at the thought of Sabo knowing him well enough to pick up on his  _ preferences _ .) 

“-we’ve a few omegas in the next room we think you’d like.”

And then she’s slowing down, and the room they enter has one wall almost entirely made up of glass, and there is just- people.  _ Naked  _ people.

He can hear his jaw click as he tries not to clench his teeth together. 

He’s supposed to be interested in this, isn’t he? That’s why there’s guards and glass and the airconditioner carefully smells of nothing but ethanol and cleaning supplies. Other alphas are  _ interested  _ in this display and he just-

“You can take as much time as you want to observe. The mirror is one-way, so you can see out but they can’t see in. Shows you a bit of their natural personality.” She smiles, and he just lifts his chin and laces his hands behind his back. He’s burning - and what better to deal with that than play ice king?

“Thank you,” he says, feeling like a cracked record but unable to think of anything better to say. He steps closer, refusing to let discomfort show on his face. He has to feel something. He has to suffocate his displeasure at the sight of so much bare skin and just  _ think,  _ because if he can’t figure out that one of these omegas is good enough, this whole endeavour will have been for nothing.

It still doesn’t stop him from wanting to call this whole thing a mistake and escape back to the well-worn drudgy of his normal life. He’s good at his job. He’s good at fixing problems and running the company and keeping people invested. 

He’s just not enough.

He needs this to work. He needs proof that there’s nothing wrong with him, and he can’t just point and pick and leave them shoved away like an impulsively bought toy. If he does he’ll be considered even worse of an alpha than he already is. He’ll be considered pathetic for not being able to fulfill his omega’s needs. 

But it’s hard to look at them and think about finding someone he can take care of easily. Marco just keeps seeing them all bleed together, their poses rehearsed and their personalities so...insincere. It feels like he’s picking personality traits out of a lineup.  _ I want them to be playful, obedient, and to have blue eyes.  _ He’s designing a doll to hang off his arm, and none of them look the same but all of them are pretty and gentle and poised-

His eyes catch. In the corner of the room stands an omega with a scowl and an aura so dark that Marco’s unsure the lights are working properly over there. His hair hangs over his narrowed eyes, and everything about him screams  _ don’t you fucking dare.  _ Now that Marco’s noticed him, he’s in disbelief that he hadn’t seen the omega before. He’s so  _ angry.  _

And angry in a way that feels real - his hands are cuffed in front of him, connected by a short length of chain, and even though he’s as naked as the rest of them, he’s not on display. The cuffs and his hands cover most of his dick, and he could turn and cover the rest, but it’s like he knows where Marco is, glaring as though he can see through the glass and pin Marco down with an arrow. 

Marco shifts forward, oddly hypnotised, and notes one last thing: 

He’s familiar. 

“Oh, are you looking at Ace?” Dr. Trafalgar laughs hoarsely, and Marco dismisses the crack in her voice. She’s been talking the whole time he’s been watching the omegas, and he’d feel a bit rude for not paying attention if it hadn’t been obvious that she was merely reciting their names. 

“Ace?” Marco mumbles, barely audible, and he thinks about card decks and an old memory - a semester in uni when he sat next to an alpha called Spade who didn’t smell like anything, who had freckles and steel-flint eyes just like Ace. The sharp, brutal way Spade always spoke, his mouth like a knife, until he'd vanished from class just before exams and never came back.

“He’s new here - gets along well with this batch, but he’s barely started training. That's why he has cuffs on. He’s not- he’s never been in a training facility before.”

There are a multitude of things he could say to that - I see; and how do you plan to train him?; aren’t most omegas trained earlier than this? - but instead he opens his mouth and regrets what comes out.

“Him.”

He’s a fucking  _ moron.  _ Why the fuck did he say that? If his weird feelings of déjà vu are right, Ace is the worst choice he can possibly make. Omegas aren’t allowed to go to university - especially not to the classes Marco had been taking - because they’re too delicate for the work, but- 

Something in him is  _ thrumming  _ and he can’t pull his eyes away from Ace’s face. His scowl looks like a knife slash, brutal and efficient in its rage, and Marco can’t stop thinking about Spade, can’t stop thinking about their debates, where Spade’s tongue was a far more passionate weapon than Marco’s brain. Can’t stop thinking about the  _ passion  _ with which Spade spoke, the way it made Marco feel like he was alight too.

There are worse things he could do than to choose an omega based on the memory of a man he barely knew, but he can’t think of them right now.

“Ace is-” Dr. Trafalgar says, stumbling, suddenly looking far younger than before as the faint edge of panic enters her tone, “he’s still currently undergoing training. As a first-time omega, especially as you expressed a preference for an omega you could use immediately- there are better choices. If you’ll just look, I mean, we have some beautiful- Koala, here, she's very clever, great with her mouth- Or, or if you’re after someone with Ace’s physique, Terry, in the corner there-”

“ _ Him _ ,” Marco says, voice dropping into a growl that he doesn’t catch until Dr. Trafalgar bares her throat, a submissive whimper dropping from her lips. He almost flushes, as embarrassed as a schoolchild, but then reminds himself; isn’t he supposed to act like this, around omegas? He’s supposed to growl, possessive, and lay his claim against anyone else who’d try and stake their mark on his property.

Ugh but it still feels  _ wrong.  _ It feels rude, feels cruel, to use his inherent abilities to force subservience- 

“I would like him, please,” Marco repeats, softer, and wraps his scent back under iron control. Dr. Trafalgar swallows, still shaking, tiny tremors revealing her discomfort, but after a moment she manages to give him a tiny smile. 

“Of course, sir. We’ll get him ready to go for you. It will- take a little longer than normal, because of his...because of the additional work we need to complete before he leaves us, but we can deliver him the day after tomorrow. Would that be alright? We will, of course, deliver to whatever abode you find most suitable-”

“My apartment will be fine,” Marco says, and tries not to feel like he’s shaking apart at the seams. It suddenly feels real, to hear talk about  _ delivery  _ and preparations. He knows exactly what preparations they mean; he’s seen enough omegas unboxed to know how much they rile up a new omega, to keep it comfortable in a new place, it’s just-

That’s going to be  _ him  _ in two days. Him, dealing with an omega drunk off slick-sick desperation, and Sabo’s already told him it’s customary to take time off work and get a new omega used to new changes - he won’t even have meetings to distract him from suddenly sharing his space with somebody new. 

He sets his jaw. This is all for a reason. He just needs to go those stupid parties and meetings, stop having his contracts rescinded once they hear the rumours about Marco’s deviancy, in not owning his own omega. He just needs the omega to look pretty on his arm and get him into those boardrooms, and then everyone will see that Marco’s competent and normal and he can  _ handle  _ this stupid shit. He just needs an omega, and the rumours will stop.

He’s already fucking defunct. He doesn’t need other people’s speculation confirming it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just think that since this chapter literally doubles the word count of the fic, I should get double the reviews pls ;> (that'd be two reviews. thnx) 
> 
> until next timeeee


	4. the hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ghjgh this chapter got away from me it was meant to have more plot and then marco wouldn't shut the fuck up. lets :))) see :))) if I can keep this :))) on track :))  
> (im so shit at long fic guys jhd)

The easiest way Marco has found to determine wealth is this:

_So, when did you have your last rut?_

Generally, he gets two answers (he tries to avoid hearing the third - the awkward, shifting look of embarrassment, the implication of begging their boss for a week off, or their doctor for cheap medication, and knowing what it will cost, but most alphas aren’t poor and Marco knows how to read context cues.)

If they’re _wealthy_ they’ll boast, proudly. They’ll grin and say _months!_ and not say a word about the cost of proper suppressants, only talk about how much work they get done without rut causing a hitch. They’ll talk about the luxury of stalling or stopping a rut, and how well their boss thinks of them for their commitment. They’ll talk about how much they like not being held to a week of sex-crazed mania, that their partner gets tired and the nurse gets cranky. 

If they’re _rich_ , Marco will get a laugh. Then they’ll beckon their omega over to sit in their lap or lean on their shoulder, and say gilbly, _oh, you know how it is._

It is money and power without care or measure, without the weight of one bad financial decision or a skipped day of work taking their choice away, and to Marco, it is bitter. That type of money comes with its own set of trappings, expectations, and a trail of well-trained omegas meant to service the alpha during any rut they decide to have, with no thought of reciprocation if their heat is triggered. 

Marco, unfortunately, is a rich man. 

And right now, his house smells like slick.

He wrinkles his nose, trying to breath through his mouth to dampen the smell. The scent of it makes him feel untethered, because it’s _good_ , and it sends something primal in him howling, but it’s also different, and new, and drowns out the rest of the scents Marco has carefully curated in his apartment. He’s not used to feeling so out of control. He’s not used to his apartment smelling of someone new, someone he’s barely had time to recognise. He’s not used to having a fucking box taking up his living room like a scar, ugly and overbearing. 

And yet slick-scent is all that fills the living room, and it has him pacing, restless, instinct urging him to open the box, open the box, find the omega, can’t you tell they want your help?

He knows taking his time isn't going to stop the nerves making his blood sing but- still. There's no-one here to judge him for the weakness. Not like in the centre, when he’d stood in the cold room and been unable to look at anyone on display, his eyes skirting off skin awkwardly like he was a fucking child instead of a rising corporate thunder.

There’s no-one here to know how much his hands are shaking. 

Well, no-one who can see him.

He’s never had an omega before, and two days wasn’t enough to get him used to the idea. How could it be, when he’d never even thought about having one before? Someone to take care of, to put up as a symbol of his wealth, when he’d thought suits and scent and intelligence should have done the work for him? He’d never realised that the lack of such a prominent status symbol had been cutting him out of meetings and deals and parties that formed the basis of partnerships. 

Marco put a hand to his head and tries not to growl.

Just open the box. Open the box. 

It doesn’t look like it should be easy to open. It’s bolted at the corners, but Marco can see where it will fold down as soon as he uses his fingerprint to unlock it. He had to verify his identity as an alpha before they let him enter the omega centre, and then again when he'd decided on which omega he wanted, so it’s obvious they’re just doing it again to verify delivery. 

He tries to think about the things that drew him to Ace, tries to think about the benefits having an omega will deliver him, tries to think about watching other omegas delivered, and knows he should have known what to expect. He’s seen other omegas be gifted to business partners before, a flex of power and control, but having his own _sit there-_

Just open the box. 

_Get it over with_ , he thinks to himself, and storms over, setting his thumb on the keypad. It beeps, a small drawer clicking open to display some keys that Marco snatches up, and then the box is unfolding and Marco holds his breath.

 _Ace_ , he thinks, the memory of that knife-sharp scowl playing war against his memory of other omegas presented for the first time. All of them came out whining and wanting and-

What a fucking disaster this will be. 

Ace’s eyes are closed. 

He’s still just as captivating as he’d been in the centre. 

That magnetic thrum hasn’t left; in fact, if Marco thought it’d been bad in the centre, it was nothing compared to now. Seeing Ace in this presentation of defiance, each chord of muscle straining against leather, seeing him in a _collar_ , marked for Marco- 

Marco feels a hook in his belly, an unsteady urge he’s never dealt with before, saying, _yours,_ saying _touch him_ , saying _isn’t he beautiful, for you?_

Ace is marked faintly by sweat marks, a red flush high on his cheeks and tiny trembles rocking through him as he bites down on his gag, and Marco sees the puddle of slick between his legs, on his thighs, and has a second to think, ruefully, _slick-sick,_ when Ace's eyes snap open.

“Hi,” Marco says, too fast, too surprised, and then feels like an idiot. Ace is glaring at him. Glaring at him! It sends him spinning, delighted, and he kneels down to be on level with Ace’s kneeling form. “I’m Marco. Your new alpha.”

Ace realises that, surely, but- still. It’s polite to introduce yourself. Polite to say hello. Polite to let the other person talk back. Marco swallows, caught on Ace’s teeth bared around the gag, and carefully reaches out. 

“You want that off?” he asks, fingertips touching the leather and feeling the warmth of Ace’s body, but Ace’s expression doesn’t change. 

Marco should take off the gag. It’s polite. 

But- but omegas are pets, technically, and he’s drowning in a surge of want he’s never experienced before. What boundary would he violate by touching, when Ace was his?

It wasn’t like Ace had given confirmation on what he wanted - so who’s to say what Marco _should_ do? 

His fingertips slip, almost of their own accord, down Ace’s cheek to actual skin, and Marco feels his breath stop. It’s slick-scent, pushing him so out of control, he’s sure. It has to be slick-scent, otherwise Marco has to confront the sudden thought that maybe this is what people mean when they say _alpha instincts._

He traces Ace’s freckles, fascinated by the promise of sun on Ace’s skin, pushes Ace’s fringe behind his ear to see evidence of where piercings would have been. It’s such a tantalising view of _Ace_ , the idea of his past, that Marco feels dizzy again. His hand moves faster, lower, to touch Ace’s neck and the collar. 

And _oh,_ the neck; that would make any omega shudder, let alone one aroused and angry. The full blown shiver makes Marco’s breath catch, and he presses harder, _wanting,_ and being free to want, watching as Ace swallows and closes his eyes. Watching as Ace’s face gains an edge of desperation instead of rage. 

_He’s beautiful_. Confusingly, stunningly- 

Marco lets his hand linger for just a second over the spot where a bond mark would go and hears Ace give a pitiful whimper, deep in his throat. Marco’s blood is thumping. Thrumming, again, saying _look at him, look at him, he’s yours, and isn’t he perfect?_

He’s so _warm._ That’s the biggest thing Marco files away as he lets his hand explore the jut of Ace’s collarbone, and then the searing heat of his torso under Marco’s flat palm. He’s so warm that Marco feels set alight too, and for half a second he thinks he understands why so many people keep an omega nearby for rut. He’s always spent rut in a haze of cold and need, the few times he’s been medically required to have it, and the idea of Ace being there is- tantalising. He’d finally be able to breathe. 

Ace shudders again, his stomach falling heavily under Marco’s palm as he heaves unsteady breaths around his gag, and Marco’s mouth feels dry. He’s like a work of art, suspended in the perfect position to show off, but Marco can still see the strain in his body as he tries to fight. His eyes drift lower, stomach twisting sickly, and he finally notes Ace’s cock, hard between his legs and bound just as tightly as the rest of him. Precome drips from the tip of his cock, staining the leather, and another confusing mix of want and distaste makes Marco touch, trying to figure out how to ease his discomfort. 

At the touch of his fingertip Ace jerks to full-bodied consciousness and then chokes, stopped by the collar. Marco yanks his hand back, feeling burned, and then worry overtakes him. “Are you okay?” he asks, using one hand to unfasten the gag and the other hand to push Ace back and ease the pressure on his throat. 

Ace gags as the ball slips out of his mouth, the loud inhale making Marco frown in concern. Then, spit lands on his cheek and his eyes go wide.

“Touch me again and I’ll bite your fucking fingers off,” Ace rasps, teeth bared in a snarl. 

Marco blinks, leaning back on his heels. "But- aren’t you uncomfortable?” he says, and then indicates Ace’s cock and his slick-coated thighs. Memories of high-school biology swim in his head; _the only thing an omega likes better than coming is being fucked_. “I’d need to touch you to help with-”

“Why would I need _your_ help? Fuck, why would I even _want it?_ ”

“I’m- an alpha?” 

Ace snorts. "And?" he says, like he’s incredulous of Marco’s stupidity, and this time Marco feels dizzy in the same way he feels when he gets swept off his feet during aikido. The world upended, soaring, as he loses his balance. "You're also the reason I'm in shackles."

“But- I- and you’re-”

"Look, shut up a minute."

Shocked by the rudeness in his tone, Marco's mouth snaps closed. Ace shuts his eyes again, and his rage melts into something far softer, shoulders losing their tight strain even as Ace frowns. It makes Marco's heart skip a beat, to see such a gentle expression on his face, and for a moment Marco wonders what Ace is thinking about. Did he have friends in the centre that Marco took him away from? Someone who thought they’d known what was best by keeping him away from an alpha? Someone who told him that study at university would be a good idea? At the very least he had to have had someone to approve those piercings. He can't have been taking care of himself alone.

Ace’s eyes open, narrowed half-slits, but it takes a moment for him to focus on Marco, and when he does, he heaves a heavy sigh. “You can help me out of these,” he offers, “and show me where the bathroom is? Then I can take care of…” his mouth twists in distaste, but he keeps his tone even as he indicates downward, “this.”

“Do you need help?”

“I know how to masturbate.”

Marco’s cheeks flush, and Ace smothers a laugh. “Do you?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow, and Marco has no idea what to say to that. What sort of defence is he supposed to offer in the face of being _laughed at?_

This isn’t anything like other unboxings he’s seen, and he has no idea what to do in the face of Ace’s vitriol, nor his lucidity. He was expecting an omega teased to uselessness, begging to be helped, not someone who’s ordering him around while kneeling on the floor. He sits down on the floor properly, legs crossed.

“Do you remember me?” he asks, tilting his head to survey Ace better, and Ace frowns. 

“Should I?”

“I thought we’d met before.”

Ace snorts. “Sure. Where, tough guy? Tell me where you think our paths would have crossed and then take another five seconds to think about our situation right now, okay? I’ll wait. Preferably not for long, because this shit hurts.” He flexes, pointedly, and Marco swallows through a dry through.

Under Ace’s challenge it feels even stupider to say _uni,_ and Marco shakes his head, breaking away from his stare. “I’ll get you out of it,” he says, and moves around to Ace’s back, where the lynchpin of his bonds are secured. 

His hands are shaking, the memory of heat pressed into his fingertips. His hands are _shaking,_ and Ace isn’t, and Marco wishes for the thousandth time, furiously, that he wasn’t fucking broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> review y'all u know the lowdown!!


	5. the keys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rattles the bars of my cage
> 
> LOOK im a needy BITCH who loves attention. i have faith in u guys, u can do it. review. u got this. pick a sentence and gush, i believe in u

By the time Marco gets him free, his hands overly cautious not to touch, Ace’s legs are numb. It gives Ace more than enough time to survey the minimalist apartment, noting ugly abstract art and vases that look like they’d belong better in a display home than an actual person’s apartment. It’s so obvious that Marco uses this as nothing more than a place to eat and sleep, and the emptiness makes Ace’s heart hurt. 

_ This  _ is where he has to carve out his survival? In an apartment so boring, so empty, that it’s a wonder Marco even has expressions? What the fuck does he do in his spare time? 

Marco frees his hands, and Ace grunts in relief as his shoulders finally relax, slumping forward now that he no longer has to sit up straight in one position.

_ The plug,  _ he thinks with a jolt of lightning to the brain as it shifts inside him, and he bites his tongue to stop any noises from coming out of him. He needs it out of him right now, right  _ fucking  _ now, because the invasiveness of it was enough to ignore when everything else hurt, but now-

He braces his palms on the floor, arms shaking, and tries to push himself up, but his muscles  _ howl  _ at him for the thought and he can barely get leverage. 

And then Marco’s hands are around his bicep, hauling him up like a kitten, and Ace could sob with relief at finally being free from the heavy sensation, but more of him is  _ screaming _ , angry, at Marco yanking him around like a toy. 

_ What else did you expect?  _ he hisses to himself, and tries to push away from Marco but then almost goes down again as his legs crumple beneath him. Marco grabs his arm and pulls them flush, taking all of Ace’s body weight. 

“Let me help you,” he says, voice almost pleading, and Ace’s throat burns as he relents. He can’t stand. Logically, no matter how bitter a taste it leaves- he needs Marco to keep him up. He needs Marco or he’s going to be stuck on the floor with slick drying on his thighs and his cock still hard as shit, bound in that stupid leather contraption, because there is  _ no  _ way he’s jerking off in front of those giant windows. 

_ Shit  _ it just hurts so bad. He grips Marco’s forearm tighter than he wants to, wanting to be able to refuse the help, but his legs fucking  _ ache  _ as blood moves back into them. His muscles are stiff and cramped with the fatigue of that shitty position, and he squeezes his eyes shut as pain flares through his legs and his back. 

“You okay?” Marco asks, his hand hovering over Ace’s, and he makes no comment about how sharply Ace is clawing at his arm. Ace wishes he had actual claws right now. There was nothing more satisfying than the thought of drawing blood, especially as his instincts sobbed in relief at finally being held, being touched. Since he’d been caught and locked in the omega centre, he hadn’t been hugged or interacted with at all, and for how physical he normally was- 

But this feels like the start of a horror story. He knows what alphas are like, and Marco acting like this is just putting him on edge. What was he going to want, if this was how he’d decided to start their interactions? Lull Ace down, easy, and gut him while he was weak? Or, almost worse; Ace has seen the hesitation in every movement Marco makes, the unsteady way he touches and stares. To have to guide Marco through something Ace doesn’t want...He could gag on the horror of that thought. 

He has no idea what Marco wants, and he hates it almost as much as the weakness plaguing his legs. 

“We can walk,” he says, unable to stop the gruff tone to his voice even as he thinks: be  _ nice,  _ be gentle, be  _ better.  _ You know what you’re here for. What you have to do.

Marco’s hand goes to his elbow, and then they’re crossing the floor and Ace can only concentrate on taking steps, his throat tight as pins and needles stab him. Fuck that stupid box, fuck the stupid  _ packing regulations,  _ fuck the slick still coating his thighs and making him sticky. 

Fuck Marco for being well-dressed and put-together while Ace has his stupid dick out. 

He heaves in another breath, trying to see if suffocation will stop him from making any pained whimpers as they finally reach a door frame, but unfortunately it doesn’t halt his sigh of relief when they stop for a moment. He leans against the wood and takes his hand from Marco’s arm to press his palms into his eyes. “Woo, that stuff is seriously shit. An hour’s too long to be kneeling,” Ace says, and then wants to bite his fucking tongue off. What’s to say Marco won’t get ideas from that, now that Ace is his?

Ace hasn’t been able to forget the collar, still latched tight around his neck. Marco removed everything else, but he hadn’t removed  _ that _ .

“This is your room, by the way.” Marco says, softly, and Ace pulls his hands away from his eyes. “I...didn’t know what you’d like, so it’s pretty plain at the moment.”

Plain but still fucking decadent. Marco looks worried waiting for his approval, but Ace takes his time noting the hardwood drawers and canopy bed. The absolutely luxurious sprawl of the bed itself, piled with enough pillows to form a bed by themselves. 

The fucking hook in the wall. 

He’s never been in a situation like this, never been someone's little pet, but he’s not an idiot. Just like he knew what the box’s shackles were for, he knows the hook is for leashing him up while Marco is busy or sleeping, so Ace doesn’t get the ‘bright idea’ to go wandering. He’s seen enough omegas lead around on leashes, especially when they’re first getting trained, but the idea that it’s going to happen to him-

He ruthlessly squashes the fear and distaste roiling in him, and gets back on his feet to take Marco’s arm. “You could have worse taste,” he says, and then tries to force Marco back on track: “Bathroom?”

“Yeah,” Marco says, and Ace steadfastly ignores the tinge of disappointment in his tone. “It’s just down here.”

_ Why couldn’t we have gone there first?  _ Ace wants to demand, biting his lip as they walk again, but thankfully his legs have loosened. Granted, they’re now burning instead of stabbing, but he can’t afford to be picky. Or show weakness. He knows exactly how Marco’s catalogued him - it’s how every alpha since Ace first presented has catalogued him, Weak. Unclaimed. Asking for it. 

Involuntarily his grip tightens on Marco’s arm, and he stumbles as he loses track of his feet. Marco lets out a comforting noise, hand settling on Ace’s bare hip, and he wishes he had the strength to stand on his own. Instead, he gets his balance back and then picks Marco’s hand off his waist, offering him a tight smile. “Thanks,” he says, and smiles, because he knows what he needs to do. Knows exactly how he needs to act to get out of this without being eaten alive.

“Bathroom,” Marco says, his cheeks faintly flushed, and for half a second Ace wishes they could have met anywhere but here. That this behaviour could be endearing rather than off-putting, that Ace felt something other than fear starting an uncomfortable seep through his bones and his blood. Tiny things keep stacking up to show Marco’s inexperience and his preconceived notions of what he thinks omegas are supposed to be like, and Ace hasn’t been prepared for this.

It wasn’t meant to be him.

He leans on the doorknob as he tries to step inside the bathroom without Marco's help, but Marco hovers behind him, unhappiness rolling through his scent in waves. 

“You can go now,” Ace says, hand braced against the sink, but Marco still stands there and watches him. 

“You should need my help,” he says, and Ace manages a tight smile.

“I don’t.”

Marco fidgets, his eyes on Ace’s white-knuckle grip on the sink. “What if you fall?”

“I’ve fallen over before,” Ace says, and wants to howl at this stupid fucking alpha, this fucking coward who thinks omega is synonym with  _ useless.  _ Saints preserve him, he’ll never survive this. He has a job to do but he has no idea how to tamp back his vicious tongue. “I think I can remember how to get back up.”

Marco brings his hand out of his pocket, and Ace’s eyes sharpen at the jangle of sound. “You can’t get the-” Marco starts, and then indicates Ace’s bound cock, “the ring off. Without the keys.”

Ace grits his teeth. So that’s how he’s playing it. Acting like he’s ever so helpful, and then drawing out something like this, so Ace has to say  _ thanks  _ for the minimal decency he provides. What a fucking  _ prick.  _ Without the constant stimulation he’s barely hard anymore, discomfort having tamped down on the urge, but the leather cockring hurts and he wants it  _ off.  _ The collar he can ignore.  _ This _ ? The reminder that he’s basically a glorified sex toy and his own satisfaction means nothing unless granted by someone else’s mercy? 

“May I have the keys?” Ace says, and the word burns his throat and comes out like gravel when he holds out his hand. “ _ Please _ ?”

“I’m not stupid,” Marco says in response. Ace freezes. “I’m not giving you the keys. That wasn’t-” he sighs. “I know I didn’t pick- the easiest omega to get along with, considering what I need you for. That you’ve been running wild for who knows how long and I’ve never done this before so I’m probably gonna fuck up bringing you to heel. You’re smart, so don’t treat me like I’m stupid, okay?”

Bring him to  _ heel.  _ Ace wants to puke. Or maybe punch Marco in the face. God that’d be nice, to knock him unconscious, take the keys, and get the fuck out of this mess. But he’d never get out of the building, and he’s already been fucking  _ marked  _ as someone’s property. At most-

“Can I have the  _ fucking  _ keys, dickwad?”

Marco’s lips suggest the hint of a smile, and he scoffs. “No,” he says, but Ace can hear the laughter in his tone. “Just sit down, okay, and I’ll get that off for you.”

At least it’s coming off, Ace thinks, and tries not to let relief show on his face as he puts the toilet lid down and gets off his aching legs. Marco kneels in front of him, and sorts through the keys till he finds what he’s looking for. His breath just barely tickles the skin of Ace’s lower abdomen, and he bites his lip. 

“You think I’m an idiot too, don’t you?” he blurts, trying to get his mind off those lithe fingers touching bare, sensitive skin. Marco looks up at him, surprised, and Ace wishes Marco had the mental capacity to look surprised and  _ not  _ be holding his dick in a featherlight grip. 

“Why do you-?”

“You’re an alpha, you’re rich, and you bought me in a private auction. You think all omegas are idiots.”

Marco shakes his head gently, and fucking thankfully, goes back to working the leather ring off Ace’s cock. It’s overly tight, and it takes a moment of struggle to unhook the buckle. Ace almost moans when it’s finally loose, even if not off, because he hadn’t realised how  _ sore  _ he’d been. 

“Omegas are…,” Marco starts carefully, his eyes on his work, “often ill-informed and have always seemed...needy, to me. Possessive.” He slips the ring off, and then looks up again. “I don’t think you’re stupid. You’re different. I don’t think I could do this if you’d been whining at me to fuck you the whole time.”

A flicker of distaste passes over Marco’s face, there and gone in an instant, and then he stands. “I’ll wait outside until you’re done,” he says quickly, before Ace can respond. Marco steps toward the door, hand wrapped around the doorknob, and then stops to look back. “I know this is gonna be an adjustment for you. But- hopefully I’ll figure something out.”

The door shuts.

Ace runs his fingers over his ear, already missing the satisfying pull of his earrings and the ridged edges of the gears he’d had designed to symbolise his allegiances. Being a pet when he’d spent the last four years fighting for omega rights? This is just going to be an  _ adjustment _ ?

Marco has no fucking idea. 


	6. mercy

Sabo’s phone rings at 11am, right when Sabo’s in the middle of a nap, and he rolls over to fumble for it in the dark.

His hand meets the flip phone instead of his smartphone. It’s not Marco.

Instinct and training have his thoughts snapping to attention, and he’s pulling his boots on as he flips open the phone. “What?” he demands, and catches the tail end of a rant;

"Fuck that stupid, overbearing son of a _bitch-_ " 

"Lami, why are you calling?" he says, dragging his packed duffle bag from the back of the closet. It’s too early for any calls from the Revolution; Sabo’s check-in time is 3am on a Wednesday, and 11 in the afternoon is way too bright for clandestine information trading. The only reason Lami would be calling is if something had compromised Sabo’s identity while Marco was at the centre. 

“I tried to stop him, Sabo, I promise,” Lami says, half-breathless in her anger. "But Marco picked Ace."

For a moment, Sabo doesn't know what she's talking about. The sentence itself makes sense, logically, but- Ace shouldn't have been near the centre, shouldn't have been on fucking _display_ as a choice, and then, regardless, with all the fucking choices Marco had-

"I'm sorry, Sabo. I couldn't make him change his mind."

“What?” he asks, still trying to compute the words, and then there’s a scramble on the other end of the line.

Koala’s voice echoes down with a crackle, her tone a vehement order. “Sabo, don’t you dare do anything stupid.”

“Me?” he asks, brain finally clicking thoughts together (Marco, alpha; Marco, apartment above him; Marco, friend (friend? _friend?)_ Marco _will hurt Ace-)_

“Yes, you fucker. Sabo, you _can’t_ go up there. You can’t see him, you don’t get to know Ace is even there yet. Marco didn’t tell you jackshit about the omega he picked. Just wait _,_ okay?”

Sabo feels faint, almost, with his rage. It’s making his blood roar in his ears, and he sways unsteadily. “Wait?” he asks, barely breathing out the word, and then hisses, “ _w_ _ait?_ And what’s going to happen while I fucking _wait?_ ”

Shit, Koala doesn’t even need to answer; Sabo’s head is already doing the work for her, filling his thoughts with vivid detail of _exactly_ what could be happening upstairs while Koala keeps him tethered to the phone. Ace, prepped by the stupid omega boxes to be alluring in scent and sight, and Marco with no compunctions about losing control. Ace, unwilling, and Marco, not fucking _listening_ when Ace says no-

He wants to fucking puke. He has to-

“You said he was a good man,” Koala reminds him softly, and the laugh that gets punched out of him is entirely bitter. 

“And what if I was wrong!” he yells, and rushes into panicked movement again, his free hand flying as he paces. “Christ, you think my understanding of people is flawless? You think I can read minds?”

“Sabo-”

“He wasn’t supposed to even be part of this! Why the fuck was he there? What the fuck were you doing, putting him up as a _choice_?”

“It was an _accident_. And his own fault- look, okay, it's going to be fine.” 

Sabo laughs again, unsteady, and suddenly notes that his boots are untied and his legs are shaking. “I’m going to go get him,” he whispers, half a threat, and Koala growls. 

“You’re not. You’re going to pretend you don’t know him.” Her tone is so stern that Sabo almost wants to make a joke about her being the boss instead of him. Instead, another aching laugh falls from his lips, and he can tell Koala’s smile is bitter by her tone. “Sabo, at least you’ve had practice at that.”

“This isn’t a fucking joke,” he says, reminded again of how he’d already failed Ace once. When a riot and an explosion ripped his memories away from him, and by the time he remembered enough, his position as Marco’s secretary led him to the perfect spying position. 

He’d done his job. He’d made the test. He’d pushed Marco to meetings and omega parties and past the fucking breaking point. He'd loaded the gun but Ace was never supposed to have been in the firing line. Never supposed to have been a causality.

“I have to get him out.”

“No,” she says, and finally the emotion is out of her tone, drained to only show steel and promise. “You can’t ruin this.We’ve worked too hard to get everything in place, to make a fucking alpha deal with someone _we_ control. _You cannot fuck this up.”_

The floor is rising. His mirror is towering above him, and then suddenly he’s on his knees with no memory of how he got there. “He’s right there,” Sabo whispers. “Koala- you can’t make me leave him.”

“You have to. And you know it.”

**Author's Note:**

> check me out on kingsofneon.tumblr.com + review my work bc i write for positive reinforcement and attention :)


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